


The Misters

by flawsinthevoodoo



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Happy Ending, M/M, Marriage, Mr & Mrs Smith AU, Spies
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-14
Updated: 2016-02-14
Packaged: 2018-05-20 08:17:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,636
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5998471
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flawsinthevoodoo/pseuds/flawsinthevoodoo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>PK and Carey's marriage has gotten a little rocky but a few well times bullets might just fix everything.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Misters

**Author's Note:**

  * For [lostlenore](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lostlenore/gifts).



> This AU sticks pretty closely with the movie so I hope fans of both like this fic. Many many thanks to the ever patient thedronesneedyou for the beta on this one.

PK settles back into his chair and tries to project confidence, but can’t help a nervous shifting of his weight under the scrutiny of the woman seated in front of him. Her bland smile, which hadn’t shifted in the slightest since PK arrived, doesn’t reach her eyes which had observed their entrances like some sort of science project. And sure, maybe he’s projecting because this whole thing is ridiculous. Their marriage is fine, a little boring, a little bland, a little, well, sucking the life out life, but it’s a marriage, it’s not like it’s supposed to be fun. Anyway, he doesn’t need some outsider to look at his marriage and tell him how it’s going, but they had won these sessions as the door prize at the Carson’s and well it seemed a shame not to use them.

 

“Just for the record, We don’t really need to be here. We’ve been married for five years—”

 

“Six.”

 

“—five or six years, and this is just like an oil change.”

 

“A check-up.”

 

“A chance to poke around the engine, maybe replace a seal or two.” 

 

Her smile takes on a sardonic tint. “Alright, let’s pop the hood. On a scale of 1 to 10, how happy would you say you are as a couple?“

 

“Eight.” Carey’s soft but firm reply is immediate and PK finds himself gritting his teeth. They are not an eight, that’s for sure. 

 

“Wait, is ten being perfectly happy and one being perfectly miserable?” Stalling for time to assess a situation is one of PK’s most valuable skills in the field and, as it turns out, in his marriage. 

 

“Just respond instinctively.” He’s sure she means for her voice to be soothing, but PK is already put on edge by this entire process and her tone just comes off grating. He smiles anyway, making eye contact with Carey for the first time since they got into this office. Carey’s dark brown eyes meet his briefly before darting away again. If PK didn’t know any better he’d say he was acting guilty, but that is probably just his own guilt talking here. Carey had nothing to be guilty for. PK would have noticed anything weird, and it’s not like subtlety is one of Carey's best qualities.

 

“OK, then on three?” Carey nods.

 

“One, two, three—”

 

“Eight,” PK replies in unison with Carey, not wanting to rock the boat too much so early on in the process. 

 

“Good. And on a scale of one to ten, how happy would you say your partner is?”

 

“Eight,” PK finds himself answering almost immediately. Carey takes the longer pause this time.

 

“Are we allowed to have fractions?”

 

“It’s supposed to be instinctual.” PK chants in unison with the doc.

 

“Alright then I’m all set. You all set?” PK nods

 

“One. Two. Three.”

 

“Eight.” PK feels one of the knots in his neck unwind as Carey says “Eight” in agreement with him.

 

“Ok then, how often do the two of you have sex?” She asks this in the same bland manner as the other questions, but PK almost chokes on his own spit and Carey’s shoulders shift uncomfortably. Neither of them will meet the other’s eyes.

 

“I’m not sure I understand the question...”

 

“Yeah, is this another one of those one to ten things because then I am really concerned with what a one is.”

 

“Is a one no sex in that case? Because really, no sex should be a zero.” 

 

PK can tell they are both vaguely panicking, feeding off one another’s discomfort with the situation, but he doesn’t know how to fix this.

 

“Ok, let’s table the sex question for now. How did you two first meet?”

 

\-----------------------------------------------

Bogotá, Colombia, five or six years ago

\----------------------------------------------

 

PK finishes his drink, relishing the burn of the whiskey as it turns to warmth in his stomach. This had been a long job, but at least he could take a few days to explore Bogotá. He grins to himself a little, remembering how indignant Brendan had been when he had found out where PK was getting sent for this job. He’s just about to order another one when there is a commotion at the door. He hears shouting in Spanish that sounds frightened and angry. Curious, he flags down the passing busboy.

 

“Hey, what’s going on?”

 

“Somebody killed the barracuda.”

 

“Sancho Varron?” PK purses his lips in thought. He turned down that hit but he guesses he wasn’t the only one called for it. 

 

“Yes. The police are rounding up all of the single tourists. You are not alone, are you, sir?”

 

PK crunches the melting ice from the remnants of his mojito, stalling for time, eyes scanning the room for an easy mark or an exit. The police are barreling through the door demanding papers of everyone even close to them, seeming frantic, but PK’s eyes catch on the man coming in right behind them. He is tall and fit, and the way that his suit pants cling to his hips almost makes PK choke on his ice. Their eyes meet and it’s like time stops. PK could literally spend hours staring at those eyes, all marbled amber and mahogany sparkling with wicked humor, unfazed by the chaos surrounding him. 

 

PK pats the busboy on the shoulder as he passes, crossing the room towards the man, devil-may-care grin plastered firmly all over his face. 

 

“Naw, I’m with him over there.”

 

To the policeman who has his arm, the man seems to be indicating something similar, shaking him off and nodding towards PK. Still grinning, PK slings his arm around the guy’s waist and smacks a kiss on his cheek. 

 

“You alright, babe?”

 

The policeman looks startled by PK’s arrival, but the mystery man looks unfazed, turning to PK with an enigmatic smile.

 

“Fine, dear, just telling this nice man that I was coming here to meet you. There appears to have been some sort of event happening or something.”

 

“Well, you must be exhausted after all that work today.” The man looks mildly startled but goes along with PK in good humor. The cop’s expression relaxes in the face of this onslaught of their combined calmness, and he gestures at them to move along. PK turns away, catches Mystery Man’s hand and tows him down the hallway towards his room, walking a little more rapidly than usual. They swing into PK’s room, PK quickly closing the door behind them. They both breathe a sigh of relief as the footsteps behind them fade away into the distance.

 

“Hi, I’m PK.”

 

“Carey,” replies mystery man with a smile that actually reaches his eyes this time.

 

“Carey,” PK repeats, almost savouring the syllables of the name as he extends a hand to shake. “Nice to meet you.”

 

“Nice to meet you.” Carey’s hand is warm and calloused in his grasp and his handshake is firm. 

 

Later that night, PK watches Carey sway a little to the music as they pass a bottle of tequila back and forth.

 

“To dodging bullets,” PK toasts, proud of his little tongue-in-cheek joke even though Carey won’t recognize it. 

 

Carey inclines his head in agreement. “To dodging bullets.” He takes his shot in one smooth practiced motion. 

 

PK pauses with the shot halfway to his mouth, mesmerized by the long pale length of Carey’s throat as he swallows.

 

_ Fuck, I could fall for him so easy,  _ he thinks to himself.  _ I’m gonna need more shots. _

 

_ \--------------------------------------------- _

 

PK wakes up slowly, basking in the warmth of the bed, not even opening his eyes as he stretches out sore muscles.  _ Wow, that was a workout,  _ he thinks, feeling like a cat who ate the canary. He rolls over to cuddle Carey, and maybe get a repeat of last night, but he finds the other side of the bed empty. Not just empty but cool. These facts send a jolt of panic through PK. Now completely awake, he sits up, eyes scanning the room to assess the situation. His eyes catch on Carey’s discarded button-down from the night before, still flung over a chair in the far corner of the room. PK relaxes a little. Carey probably wouldn’t leave his shirt behind, though that does raise the question of where exactly he is that he’s ok without his shirt. PK is just considering getting up out of bed himself when the door opens and Carey swings in, carrying a tray and wearing… PK’s shirt. 

 

“Hiya, stranger.” PK drawls at him, eyes blatantly raking up and down Carey’s deliciously rumpled form.  
__  
“Hiya back,” Carey grins. “I think room service fled, so I did what I could.” __  
__  
PK’s stomach grumbles, derailing his libido, and he grabs for the tray as Carey sets it down on the bed, curious at what he brought. __  
  


“Thank you,” he mumbles around the piece of cheese he shoves in his mouth, a little too hungry to be concerned with good form. The cheese is sharp but smooth. Delicious. “Oh, that's good.”  
  
With amusement, Carey watches PK gorge himself, sipping at the sole cup of tea on the tray.

 

“I hope so. I had to milk a goat to get it.”

 

PK snickers and curls into Carey’s side while he continues munching, letting out a pleased sigh as Carey begins rubbing his back. He could get used to this.

 

_ \----------------------------------------------- _

 

The Carnival is in full swing, people bustling this way and that. PK can’t help but track the interesting ones: there’s an arms deal going on behind the popcorn stand, and he’s pretty sure that clown is selling cocaine. Honestly though, a dictator with a million dollar bounty on his head could saunter through unarmed, and PK would still rather be with Carey. He can’t remember the last time he thought something like that. Hell, he’s never thought something like that.

 

“Hey, step right up, ladies and gentlemen. Try your luck.”

 

Grinning PK hooks his arm through Carey’s, steering him towards the booth with the shooting game inside.

  
“How about you, gentlemen? Wanna try your luck? Win a prize?”  
  
PK looks at Carey to see if he wants to play. He nods. 

 

“Yeah, all right.” He holds up two fingers. “Two.”

 

“We got two over here.” Says booth guy grinning in a way that gets under PK’s skin. PK knows he’s gonna wipe it right off that guy's face.  
  
“You know how to hold it?” He checks with Carey.  
  
“Yeah.”

“Yeah?”  
  
“Yeah.”  
  
“You gotta aim it.”

 

“I am.” Carey lets off the first shot and it is clear to PK that he’s never shot anything before. His aim is thrown off by the recoil and ends up hitting nothing that PK can see. He’s not sure the shot even hits the booth. Four rounds later, none of the targets have been hit and it’s PK’s turn.

 

PK steps up, rolling his shoulders, settling into a shooting stance easily and firing, adjusting for the recoil. He hits the first three targets before realizing he should probably seem a little more civilian. He jerks the gun slightly on his next two shots, just barely missing the targets. He musters up a sheepish look for the guy running the booth.

 

“Do we still get something?” 

 

The guy snorts and passes him a small bear.    
  


PK passes the bear to Carey with a small smile. “Beginner’s luck, eh?”  
  
Carey tucks the bear into the bag he is carrying and addresses booth dude.

 

“I want to go again.” 

 

The guy looks a little surprised and then smug.   
  


“Alright, going again.” 

 

Carey gets the rifle back, settling it into position in a way that looks much more comfortable than what he had done the first time. He lets off all five shots in quick succession, hitting a bullseye with each shot. He puts the gun down and turns to the guy behind the counter expectantly. The guy hustles over and pulls down the giant bear hanging from the rafters. PK literally can’t move, he’s so surprised. He is sure his mouth is hanging open in shock.

 

“Where'd you learn to shoot like that?”   
  
“Beginner's luck.” Carey replies cuddling his prize close and looking smug.

 

PK didn’t think he could find Carey any sexier, but the guy just keeps proving him wrong. Carey gives him a peck on the cheek.

 

“C’mon, let’s go get a funnel cake.”

 

\-----------------------------------------------

Back Home

\-----------------------------------------------

 

“I’m in love,” PK says, swinging around to pull Brendan into a headlock.

 

“Stop. Stop, you've only known the guy for six weeks,” protests Alex from outside the ring.  
  
“I'm in love,” PK repeats. “He's smart, sexy,” he grunts, trying to break the hold Brendan has on his midsection. The guy is little but he is damn scrappy.  “He's uninhibited and complicated. He's the—ooof—sweetest thing I've ever seen.” The air in his lungs wines as his back hits the ground.  
  
“I knew Gally two and a half years before I asked him to marry me.” He can see Alex frowning down at him from his place on the ground. “You have to have a foundation of friendship, bro. The other stuff fades.”

 

“Yeah, yeah, yeah. But, man, he’s perfect. A server goes down on Wall Street. He's there, anytime, day or night. He's like Batman for computers. And man, I just have  _ never _ met anyone like him.”

 

“You cannot rush into this, it will only lead to bad things,” Alex objects, “and—”

 

“Alex?” PK cuts him off before he goes into full on rant mode. “I asked him to marry me.” This, unfortunately, comes out as a wheeze because he ends up with all 180 pounds of Brendan sitting on his chest. He grapples with the back of Brendan’s shirt, trying to pull the guy off.  
  
“What?” Alex sounds more winded that PK right then and he almost has to laugh at the look of disbelief on the guy’s face.  
  
“I'm getting married!”

“What? I can't hear you.”  
  
“Getting—ugh—fuck! Married.”

 

“I can't hear. Stop hitting him Bren, I think he said something crazy.”

 

PK takes in a huge gasping breath, arms and legs splayed out on the mats.

 

“I'm getting married.”

 

“Oh for fucks sake. Why do I even bother?” Alex huffs and swans out of the gym.

 

Brendan holds out a hand to help PK up. “Don’t worry about Mr. Drama King over there, I think it’s great you finally found someone. We’re really happy for you, man.”

 

“Thanks, man,” PK replies, slinging an arm over Brendan’s shoulder and feeling content in a way he hasn’t in years. “That means a lot.”

 

\---------------------------------------------

Second Meeting with The Doctor.

\---------------------------------------------

 

“So, part two. Here we are. Only this time, you came back alone. Why did you come back?”   
  
“I'm not sure, really.” PK shrugs. “Let me clarify, I love my husband. I want him to be happy. I want good things for him. But there are times… when I just want to—to choke him out.” 

 

PK pauses and gets himself back under control. He can only really expose so much of himself to this civilian.  
  
“There's this huge space between us. And it just keeps filling up with everything that we don't say to each other. What is that called?”

 

“Marriage.” The doctor tries to joke. When she is met with PK’s blank face she returns to questions. “What don't you say to each other?”

 

“I don’t know, just things, things he doesn’t really need to know.” He’s shrugging again and he doesn’t like it.

 

“Alright,” says the doctor agreeably. “And how honest are you with him?”

 

“Pretty honest.” PK answers immediately and then feels guilty because that is so far from the truth. He tries again. “I mean... It's not like I lie to him or anything. We just… I have little secrets.” He crosses his arms defensively. ”Everybody has secrets.”

 

“It probably feels like you're the only people going through this, but there are millions of couples that are experiencing the same problems,” the doctor says in a voice that she probably thinks is soothing but just grates on PK’s nerves.   
  


“Somehow I doubt that,” PK mutters to himself.

 

\--------------------------------------------

 

PK strolls into his office like he owns the place, high fiving Patches on his way out. Alex is sitting, looking adorable and rumpled at his desk in reception. PK smiles at him fondly and sets down a cup of his favorite coffee between him and the computer screen.

 

“Good morning. There's trouble in Atlanta again.”     
  
“That's what I hear. What you got?” 

 

“I've got your boarding pass, taxi receipts… Get rid of that gum,” Alex scolds.  
  
“You got a tissue?” 

 

“And your hotel bill.” He hands it over along with a pocket pack of tissues and a look of extreme judgement.  
  
“Thanks.”

 

“Yeah, yeah, yeah, don't lose those. Keep them in the envelope this time.” PK smiles to himself as the ever-cranky Russian returns his attention to the papers on his desk, effectively dismissing him. He snarks because he cares.  
  
“Is Brendan here?” he asks gesturing at the door to his left.

  
Alex doesn’t even look up from the papers on his desk.

 

“The door's unlocked.”

  
“Morning, pal.” PK greets Brendan.

 

“How you doing?”   
  
“Same old same old. People need killing.”

 

“And we’re gonna kill ’em.” Brendan smirks and they fistbump. 

 

PK saunters through the rest of the Gallys’ shared office into his own. The security engages and he settles into his chair as a screen rolls down from the ceiling.  
  
“Hello, John.” PK spent years trying to decipher the voice behind all of the filters before tabling the issue. It doesn’t behoove him to piss off the guy paying his bills and really, he likes this job.

 

“Morning, Atlanta.”   
  
“Quite the body count this week.” PK brushes his shoulders off smugly. “We have a Priority One, so I need your expertise. The target's name is Brandon Prust, aka ‘The Tank’. He's a direct threat to the firm. DlA custody. They're making a ground-to-air handoff to heli, ten miles north of the Mexican border. I need you to make sure the target does not change hands.” 

 

“Acknowledged, Sir.”

 

The screen rolls back up into the ceiling, leaving PK alone in his darkened office to prepare.  
  
“‘The Tank’? Sheesh, who names these guys? They’re getting cornier with every kill,” he mutters to himself as he pulls up the files he just received for this case.

  
\--------------------------------------

 

PK is dusty, tired and pissed off when he gets back to the office. He ignores Alex’s questioning greeting and heads for Brendan. He throws a mangled laptop onto the desk, ignoring Brendan’s scandalized face. 

 

“What can you get me off that laptop?”

 

Brendan pokes the laptop carcass with the end of his pencil. “Rough job?”

 

“You could say that.” PK flops down into the chair on the other side of the desk. “We weren’t the only firm on the job. The other guys got in my way. I didn’t even get to kill anyone.” He knows he’s pouting, but damn it, he wanted to get  _ some _ action on this job. “Some guy fucked it up, wandered right the fuck through the site. Set off all my shit. The only thing left of them when everything cleared was that.” He points at the laptop. “So, I would really love if you could get me something off there.” 

 

“I’ll see what I can do with your chicken-fried laptop over here PK but, dude, this thing looks FUBAR.”

 

PK sighs through his nose and leans back in the chair, covering his eyes. “Just, wake me up if you can get anything yeah?”

 

He jerks awake hours later to Brendan throwing erasers at him from the other side of the room.

“Wha’ fuck?” he grumbles, brushing off what looks like all of the damn erasers they have in the office. 

 

“You’ll be happy to hear I am a genius and brought your zombie machine back to life—or at least back to life enough to pull some data from it. I pushed what I found to your phone. There is an address in there that looks like where they might have come from if you want to check it out. Your car’s GPS already has it programmed in.”

 

PK yawns and tips an imaginary hat in his direction. “You are a god among men, Gally.”

 

“Damn straight I am,” replies Gally with his familiar lazy smile. “Now shoo, go fuck someone’s shit up.”

 

PK returns his grin before settling back into game mode. Someone is about to have a very bad day.

 

\---------------------

 

When he reaches the address the voice in the car had directed him to, PK has a weird feeling that he’s been there before. Something about it tugs at his memory, but he can’t place it. He shrugs the feeling off, more concerned with the now than some potential past he might have had. He looks at the placard for the suite Gally’s information had indicated, scanning the names for anything that looks out of place. His eyes catch on one of the company names and he finds himself stumbling away breathing hard. He knows that name, he hears it all the time. Carey’s company. But that can’t be right. None of this makes sense. The feeling of dread in the pit of his stomach grows the longer he stands there watching the building. To a civilian, nothing he sees would have looked off, but to PK’s trained eye there were a thousand odd little things, people whose movement looks wrong, clothing that doesn’t quite hide the telltale angles of a handgun, knife or bulletproof vest. He grinds his teeth in frustration. He doesn’t want to see this, he doesn’t want this to be happening, but what is he supposed to do? His phone beeps. It’s a text message from Carey.

 

_ What time do you want dinner? _

 

PK sighs, closing eyes. He isn’t perfect, he could be wrong about this, Carey could be exactly who he says he is. Either way, a guy’s gotta eat, right? 

 

_ Working late. How does 8 sound? _

 

_ *thumbs up emoji* _

 

\---------------------

 

Dinner looks as delicious as it usually does—all of PK’s favorites arrayed on a perfectly set table. The sense of normalcy, of comfort, is jarring in the middle of the day he’s had. He sits nervously, tensely, through the first course, making stilted small talk with Carey about the neighbors. He can feel an air of anticipation in the room and he searches for a way to break the tension, a way to get answers. His eyes catch on the wine bottle in the middle of the table. He gets up smoothly and brings the bottle to Carey’s side of the table.

 

“Table side service?” Carey asks, lazy grin on his face.

 

“Only the best for my husband.” PK responds with a smarmy smile that always gets Carey laughing.

 

Then, while pouring the cup, PK fakes a fumble letting the bottle slip from his fingers. Without looking, Carey’s hand shoots out and catches the bottle. PK stares in shock at the bottle sitting in Carey's hand, a wave of rage and betrayal washing over him. Carey's eyes widen in shock and recognition. PK's frozen, his mind running through every second of the last five years, turning it over in his mind, catching on all the little discrepancies, the little things that he had found innocuous at the time, but were tells, things that should have rung alarm bells in his head. They are staring at each other and for the first time, PK thinks they might actually be seeing each other. He isn't sure he likes what he sees. Carey breaks the standoff first, darting a look at the bottle, then deliberately releasing it, letting it crash to the floor. Some distant part of PK feels a sense of satisfaction. He's always hated that fucking carpet.

 

"I'll go get a towel for that, it's gonna stain."

 

"No, I'll get it, don't worry."

 

"I'm not worried I'm just going to go get a towel."

 

They both leave the room. PK's body is moving on autopilot, almost pure muscle memory, as he rummages for the catch on his desk opening the secret compartment. He assembles his gun, loads and cocks it. His husband is the enemy. His husband is the enemy? How the fuck does that even happen? He forces himself to focus on the present, not get sucked back into memories, into second-guessing everything he has ever done in his marriage. He creeps back into the room, tensed for a fight, but it's empty. It looks like a perfect scene from a romantic movie, flickering candles and neat place settings on a crisp white tablecloth, but just like in a movie they are all fake, props in the game he and Carey were playing. 

 

"Honey?" 

 

He creeps around the corner towards the kitchen tensing more when he doesn’t hear any of the telltale noises of Carey’s movements. The sound of the garage door opening has his head shooting up and he is quickly moving towards the garage. Carey is not going to get away from him. 

 

He can see him pulling out in the sedate sedan that they had bought just last year, a dad car Carey had joked, and PK finds himself gritting his teeth as he swerves across the yard in an attempt to cut Carey off at the curb. He can see the car hitting the street and aims his body for the fence. He leaps forward and feels a wrenching sensation as his foot gets caught on something, sending him sprawling out into the fence and, damn, they had just gotten the darned thing painted. He feels more than he hears his own gun go off. Their car screeches to a halt as he looks up to see a bullet hole in the windshield inches from Carey’s now furious and disbelieving face. Fuck.

 

“Fuck.” PK scrambles to get back on his feet, holding his hand out in a placating manner. “Accident, Honey!” He can see Carey getting more angry, eyes narrowed. “No, no it was an accident!” He runs out into the middle of the road, hands upheld, pleading.

 

“Carey, sweetheart, don’t do this.” He can see Carey take a deep breath and drive forward, steering around PK.

 

“Carey? No, stop that car now!” Carey ignores him and keeps driving. PK watches as the last five years of his life drives away, lit only by the dim glow of tail lights.

 

\-----------------------------------------

 

“How did I not know? We’ve spent years together, years and then this? this is who he is?”

 

Alex looks at the sloppily drunken assassin sprawled all over his kitchen table and picks up his cell phone to text Gally. This is more Brendan’s realm of dealing than his own. He hears the thumping as he comes down the stair without answering the text and feels some of the tension seep out of his muscles. Brendan can handle this.

 

“Aw shit man. That bad?”

 

“He fucking tried to kill me Bren. It doesn’t get much worse than that.”

 

“Shhhh buddy.” Brendan rubs his hand soothingly up and down his back in an attempt at comfort. “I’m sure he didn’t mean it.”

 

“He meant it,” PK replies miserably before passing out.

 

The last thing PK remembers is a hushed conversation between Alex and Brendan about ways to kill Carey and hide the body. He grins weakly. They are good friends.

 

\--------------------------------------------

 

PK approaches his house as tentatively as he had ever done anything in his life. All senses on alert. If Carey is going to kill him, it will not be because he got the drop on him. PK is going to make him work for that kill if he wants it. Even as on guard as he is, he almost misses the click of Carey cocking his gun. The bullet just misses him.

 

“You still alive?”  
  
“Your aim's as bad as your cooking, baby.” 

 

They trade shots almost bullet for bullet for interminable minutes, lead shredding through china and curtains, pretty much everything they had collected over five years together. That seems fitting when PK takes a second to think about it before creeping down the hallway towards where he thinks Carey’s last position was.  
  
“Come to Daddy,” PK crows as he swings around the corner, firing upwards and hoping.  
  
“Who's your daddy now?” Carey responds, not a little smugly as he grabs PK in a choke hold. The perfect grip to switch up and break his neck.  
  
“Can't do it.” Carey whispers, letting him go.  
  
“No! Don't! Come on.” PK doesn’t want it to end like this. Wants them to both be giving their all, not giving up like this. “Come on!”

 

Carey steps back shaking his head “I can’t fucking do it.” He sounds disgusted with himself.

 

“Hey, from where I’m sitting that’s the best news all day.” Carey gives a mirthless chuckle, weak smile not at all reaching his eyes. 

 

PK moves forward slowly, afraid to spook his husband. His hand comes up to cradle his jaw, bringing him in for a kiss. The kiss is wet, hot and biting. It is familiar and yet somehow new. Carey pulls back, holding his lip between his teeth, making PK moan and dive back in, hands roaming the broad spans of Carey’s muscled back, fingers toying with the frayed tears in his shirt. It is just heating up when they hear the shrill tones of door bell. PK raises his eyebrow and Carey just shrugs and tugs his tattered shirt all the way off.   
  


PK swings the door open. There is a Rent-a-Cop and the Coopers from next door.

 

“Yeah?” 

 

“Everything OK? We heard an awful ruckus.” PK has to hold back a snort.  
  
“No, everything's fine here.” 

 

Carey slides into view, agreeing with PK. “Yeah, it's great.” 

 

“So you guys are fine?” The Coopers look nonplussed. Poor civilians, they had no idea what was going on right under their nose.  
  
“Yeah, couldn't be better.” PK grins and slings an arm around Carey’s waist, pulling him close and almost leering at the expanse of golden skin exposed by his discarded shirt.  
  
“Nice. You guys are...”  
  
“Suzy, Martin. Have a nice night.” Carey replies firmly, reaching out to swing the door closed.

 

\--------------------------------------

 

Sated, PK rolls over to grin at Carey.   
  


“That left of yours... A thing of beauty.”

 

“You take it well.” 

 

“Thank you.” PK leers back at him and Carey lazily smacks him upside the head with a fond look on his face.  
  
“Ok, about that vacation in Aspen. You left early. Why?”   
  
“Jean-Luc Gaspard.”

 

“Oh, God!”    
  
“Yeah.”

“I wanted him,” PK whines.  
  
“Forget it,” Carey responds, planting a kiss on PK’s pout.  
  
“You didn't hear me that night the chopper dropped me off for our anniversary dinner.”   
  
“No.”

 

“No?”  
  
“Percussion grenades. I was partially deaf that night.”  
  
“I'm slightly color blind.”  
  


“Retinal scarring.”

 

“I can't feel anything in these three fingers.”  
  
“Three ribs. Broken eye socket. Perforated eardrum,” PK says indicating each body part in turn.

 

“Do you ever have trouble sleeping after?” PK wonders aloud.

 

Carey shrugs a little elbow digging into PK’s abs. “Not once”

 

“Yeah, me either.” 

 

\--------------------------------------------

 

The grenade crashes through the window, shattering the glass and the careful quiet they had been cultivating between them. PK scrambles to get himself between Carey and all of the open entry points while Carey grabs and deftly flings the grenade back from whence it came. Smoke bombs are seconds later flooding the room with acrid fog. He gestures to Carey to get  down to the basement, and when he doesn’t move, he grabs his shirt and drags him down there. They have a hurried argument over who gets which of the stashed weapons PK had squirreled away, then they are off again, bursting up out of the cellar doors into a rain of gunfire.  They dart to the car picking off the shooters as they go.

 

“Go go go!” PK shouts as soon as he slides into the car, checking his magazine. He’s gonna need more bullets if they want to keep this shit up. 

 

The tires screech as Carey pulls away from the curb, hurtling down the street with three black vans in hot pursuit.

“I was given 48 hours to take you out,” Carey admits from the driver’s side.  
  
“Same.”  
  
“Jesus, where's the trust?” Carey looks disgusted with the idea that his company hadn’t trusted him. 

 

“Honey, I think they probably know us a little too well for trust at this point.” PK is grinning, adrenaline pumping. He is ready for a fight—with his husband by his side he’s ready for just about anything.

 

\--------------------------------------------

Two weeks later

\-------------------------------------------

 

For some reason the doc doesn’t get under PK’s skin this time. Maybe it’s because this time he  _ knows _ his marriage is the bomb.

 

“I'm interested in the progress you've made in the last few weeks.”  
  
“Doing all right, aren't we? I'm not gonna lie to you, there were times when I wanted to...” PK makes a killing gesture.  
  
“Likewise,” Carey agrees with a sardonic smile.

 

“But… couldn't take the shot.”

 

“That's a good sign.” She writes something down and gives a little smile.  
  
“Who'd have thought?”

“You have to battle through.”   
  
“That's marriage, right?”

 

“Yeah. Take your best shot, and…”

  
“Oh, we redid the house.” 

 

“We did. Yes, we did. “  
  
“You know there will always be challenges? Threats out there?”  
  
“Yup.”   
  
“But you can handle it together.”   
  
“Yes, we can.” Carey reaches out and grabs PK’s hand. 

  
“And do you feel your relationship styles are more conducive to this...” The therapist gestures at the general area.  
  
“Ask us the sex question.” PK prompts with a grin.  
  
“Pernell.” Carey says scoldingly.  
  
“Well, that...” She shrugs.  
  
“Ten.” They say it in unison and PK wants so very much to kiss that smug little smirk off of Carey’s face. So, he does.

  
  



End file.
